He Came Home
by HappierThanMost
Summary: Sodapop has returned from the war, and Darry and Ponyboy are counting their blessings.


**HE CAME HOME**

My little brother has always been unusual, living up to his unique name, moving through life with all his quirks and curious ways. Mom always said he came into this world upside down, born in the breech position, and hadn't the desire to ever right this stance, choosing instead to see life from an entirely different vantage, marching to his own drum. Upon finding out he was a lefty, Mom certainly wasn't surprised and firmly refused the teachers' archaic methods to correct this trait they called a "hindrance." Now that he's come home from the war, Sodapop Curtis might be the most interesting person I will ever know.

He's been home several months, but it still sometimes startles me to find him smoking on our porch or when I pass him in our narrow hallway. His hair now reaches his shoulders, his chiseled features hidden by a full beard, not unlike the Jesus painting that still hangs over my mother's old dresser.

"Hey man," is his standard greeting, and though his voice is still the same old lazy drawl, his eyes carry about 365 nights of pure hell, spent in a jungle of terror and chaos, unlike anything I could imagine. Or would ever want to.

He came home to us, after the longest year of our lives. _He came home to us._ I still repeat this to myself sometimes. Like when my mind is wandering, away from my work, over some rooftop high above Tulsa. Now I shudder when I think back to those dark days of his absence, Pony and I clinging to each other on some makeshift life raft of dared hope and fearful maybes. Neither of us fully living, we simply plowed through, checking off each day, thanking God there was no knock, no telegram. Grateful for another hour that Soda might still be in this world, walking and talking. The alternative would be too cruel to even fathom.

Yes, he came home, to a little brother who'd become a college student, to an older brother that somehow managed to keep things intact, to his family that so desperately needed him in it, if they were ever going to survive. I remember telling my brothers we'd find a new normal after our parents died. I worked my fingers to the bone for years trying to get there. But normal was always just out of our grasp, never meant for us, and I've since given up on normal. Now, I'm just satisfied if the three of us are all under the same roof. Whether we're messed up or not, worse for the wear, abnormal or otherwise, doesn't matter to me in the least.

I've never seen a person so fit for change, for hardship even. Soda's body and spirit are malleable, bending and shaping to any environment. Of course he returned with a weight his shoulders can never rid, vile memories that sometimes wake up the house with the screams from nightmares. But, he also brought with him a full set of sturdy coping skills, allowing him to get right back to life, albeit changed forever.

As soon as he came home I felt myself letting up on him. My guardian role flew right out the window along with the lectures and the house rules. Because standing before me was a man who seemed twice my age. How would I even think to tell him what to do? I couldn't enclose him with the fences of all my stipulations that still held Pony. And so he comes and goes as he pleases. He stays up most of the night and sleeps until afternoon. He blasts the music he fell in love with during his time over there, the music that "sustained him," he tells us now.

I have a good guess at what's pulling him out and about around town most nights. But I just turn a blind eye. If turned up bottles and a steady stream of pot help ease some of that angst, who am I to judge? I've heard much worse about returning soldiers. And besides, Social Services is no longer a threat. We actually beat the system that tried beating us.

And so, this summer of 1969, Pony and I are enjoying our middle brother, as we watch the entire country get swept up in the strong tide of unrest and turbulence. Just as we're preparing to reach the moon, suddenly I feel like we might be living on it. I don't recognize us, America anymore.

One of Soda's strong suits is his ability to talk. As soon as he started at two he never stopped. And I think that's one of the many reasons he handles life's sufferings so well. He keeps nothing in. So, while he's captivating us with riveting stories of Vietnam, and while we hang on his every word, he's coming to terms with it, making peace with it, even while it comes out as some entertaining tale. Of course, I know he glides past all the details of gore, of slaughter. He won't use his brothers as an outlet for things such as that. So, the ugliness gets tucked away to be dealt with later. Through his music, his vices, and maybe, just maybe when Steve comes home. If.

I didn't think Ponyboy and I would make it. But, I realized soon he wasn't the little kid anymore. Of course, like me, he was devastated saying goodbye to Soda in the bus depot. But through all those months, he was as much a support to me as I was ever going to be for him. We both kept our heads down and braced against that violent wind bearing down, trudging through work and school, just so we could get home and be near each other, the only comfort we could find. We talked and hoped, prayed and paced, worried and wrung our hands, waiting for Soda like it was our night job. And it was. Then, _he came home to us._ The world shifted back on its axis. And if Ponyboy idolized Soda before, he damn near worships him now.

* * *

It doesn't matter that my older brother stays up all night, spending hours hovering over a map of Vietnam, the pen in his left hand scribbling trails of "X"s, plotting out where Steve's unit might be stationed now, using news reports and Steve's scarce letters. He worries endlessly he might be near some of the most horrific parts that he himself encountered. Sure, it's bordering obsession. But I get it.

The fact that he can sometimes be found scrubbing the grout of our bathroom tiles at midnight might seem a little odd, yes. Or that his music carries on all hours of the night. Or that he has no qualms walking to and from the bathroom stark naked these days. Darry just tells me to let all of that stuff slide. Says he earned the right to do all of it and then some. I guess he's including Soda's recreational choices in that statement too.

I don't even mind that I once woke up to him yanking me out of my bed in the pitch black of night, jerking me to the floor and underneath him, his hand over my mouth while he kept telling me over and over in a whispered panic, "They found us." Darry had to work to pull him off and it sure shook me up, but that was early on. Nothing like that has happened since.

He may not stand the same or even look the same with all that hair, but as I'm looking out at him through this filthy window, I see every piece of Soda, just put back together in a different way, like some intriguing mosaic. He stands in the yard, wearing only jeans and a tattoo that brands him USArmy, and bearing one tiny scar, thank God, a white diagonal line right above and through his left eyebrow from a piece of shrapnel that narrowly missed his eye.

He's never been one to sit still, so he's working on a broken wheelbarrow that he salvaged from the back shed. He's leaning over its wheels, spinning a screwdriver with speed and agility, his long hair tied back, some escaped pieces dance against his tan cheeks, mingling with the hair on his face. He raises up when CCR comes on the transistor radio that he has leaned against the tree. He lights a smoke and looks at the sky and I move outside to join him, glad to finally have a smoking partner and besides, I love this song.

He doesn't even notice the slam of the screen door, since he's already waist high in that bayou and the raw sounds of Fogerty, feeling that back beat, looking every bit like he stepped straight out of the swamp south and "ran the backwood bare."

I sit on the porch steps and I've come into his view, so he struts over while singing along with the warning, "..don't let the man get ya, do what he done to me, cause he'll get ya Pony." He adds my name and I smile, though I actually think he's serious about that. He lights my cigarette, and sits right up next to me. He's never known the boundaries of personal space, at least not with us. We smoke and talk about the song, about the "hound dog barking, chasing down a hoodoo there."

I've been telling Soda about this huge music festival that's supposed to go down somewhere in upstate New York next month. That we should take a road trip. He says "There'll be too many hippies," which is odd, since that's exactly how I see him now. Minus the military tattoo, of course, and the fact he gunned down countless enemy soldiers with exceptional skill and without much thought. "Kill or be killed," he told us one night at dinner like it was no big thing. Darry and I locked eyes for a split second, with the look of "Did he just say that?" But, Soda always was a ruthless fighter. When not in a fight or a war, though, he wouldn't hurt a flea. Or even a flower, like those crazy hippies who put them in their hair. But we can both dig their music, for sure.

Just then Darry pulls up, home from work. He climbs out of the car and takes off his sunglasses, smiling up at us. He puts the glasses on top of his head, and I notice his hair has gotten pretty long this summer too. Not as long as mine, and definitely not Sodapop long. None of us wear the grease anymore. He's brought home a pepperoni pizza from Gino's, Soda's favorite. Instead of going inside, Darry sets it on the rickety wheelbarrow, and although the crust is way too doughy, I enjoy every bite sitting on these Curtis steps with my older brothers.

Darry and I both stare at Soda while he eats and talks, never getting enough of all that he is. The sun has made her graceful exit, leaving the soft glow of twilight. Crickets and tree frogs have started their chorus, and Darry has had his fill, taking the pizza box into the house.

Soda and I sit, and I look at him in the golden light that's spilling out of the windows. Soda's always been my idol. Who doesn't look up to their older brother? But, beyond that, he's one of those people you just don't come across everyday. My stomach turns when I think about where we would be if the dice had fallen a different way. I push that thought away and focus on the here and now.

He sees me looking and smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Somehow you manage to pull off this hobo look, Soda, " I tease him.

He sits back against the steps, his arms opened. "This ain't no look. This is just me right now." And that sums him up. He's never going to be anybody but him.

I reach for his dog tag under my own shirt and squeeze it in my palm, like I've done everyday since he let me wear it, giving thanks. I try and imagine all the combat, all the savagery this cold piece of metal witnessed while hanging around my brother's neck, dangling near his pumping heart. And how it must've laid against the rise and fall of his chest while he slept in the filthiest, most brutal conditions. All the while Darry and I were sitting vigil in this house night after night, pleading for God to bring him back. I'm holding the tag to my lips now as I look up at the brilliant stars and I feel myself smiling, even as my tears are starting, causing my nose to burn.

Soda reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. "I came home Pony," he reminds me, but I don't think any of us have allowed ourselves to believe this wind of fortune that finally blew our way, this beautiful grace that descended on our family and saved us all. It's become my whispered benediction, my salvation. _He came home to us._

 **A/N:** The Outsiders by SE Hinton, Born on the Bayou by Creedence Clearwater Revival

I'm trying to force myself to keep writing, keep posting so I don't have time to lose my nerve, so here's yet another one shot, because I just can't graduate to chapter novels, and probably never will.

And since I don't do chapter updates, I never get to thank the guest(s) who leave such kind reviews. There's one I recognize each time as a loyal reader. And I hate that I can't PM you! So, thanks to those I can't thank personally! I appreciate everyone who's been so gracious.

Also, a special thank you to 1000splendindsuns. She was my go-to-girl for my last story, when I was needing information on all things Shepard.

Thanks for reading!


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